


One More Soul to the Call

by Niccolò Machiavelli (Piccolo_Machiavelli)



Series: Before the Storm, After the Fire [5]
Category: 15th Century CE RPF, 16th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Machiavelli - Fandom
Genre: Gen, this part gets a wee bit violent, yes I ripped the title off of a Silent Hill song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 17:53:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9196811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piccolo_Machiavelli/pseuds/Niccol%C3%B2%20Machiavelli
Summary: Gods forbid that unexpected visitors stop showing up in Machiavelli's life.





	

It’s been a short four months since we arrived at my father’s old estate. It’s… different here. As the sun was setting, Marietta and I gathered our belongings, took our children by the hand, and led them out of the city, while Medicean guards watched us leave with satisfied smirks on their faces. They backed out of the way to allow us to exit the city, and the moment we left the threshold, they assumed their usual formation, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, preventing any access to the city at all. One thousand florins short, and we are barely left with anything. I was thankful to stumble upon a fully-furnished estate that had everything in it save for inhabitants and food. The walk was long and took us half a night, but we hardly stopped at the road. Primerana was the one who kept us walking on, for she was convinced that we were being followed the entire time. Seven miles to the south was our destination, surrounded by rolling hills and scattered crops. There is one feature of the house that bothers me, and my wife was the one to discover it on the first night here. She cast a glance to the north, and remarked as I was coming in the door: “Dio mio, would you look at that? You can still see the city from here.” I, of course, rushed to the window and peered outside. There she was in all her glory: Firenze. The dark of the night obscured most of her from view, but she was clear as day the next morning when the sun came up and sent a glimmer of gold into the room. Il Duomo. The Piazza. The Campanile. The view was hard to stomach at first, but after four months, I am (mostly) able to stare out the window without feeling tears brimming in my eyes.  
I’ll admit it. Life here has gotten difficult. Food is scarce, our only sources being the market in a small town that is quite a walk away from here, or the land, which is likely too dry in the summer to produce food full of life and vigour. I almost broke a tooth trying to chew on dried fruit, although I cannot confirm whether or not it was actually rotten. The worst part is the waiting. The loneliness. It’s the solitude that kills a man slowly, drives him insane until he is a shell of his former self. From a great distance away, I get to watch as decisions are made without me in my Palazzo, what was once my home. I am removed from my political world entirely, and I miss it. I miss it more than anything.

“Are you staring out that damned window again, tesoro?” Ah, my wife. My brave, beautiful wife who has never once left my side during any of this. “I’ll say what I say every single morning. Staring out a window--”

“--doesn’t change anything, I know. You say it to me every morning, you house pest,” I reply, motioning her over with a smile on my face. She mirrors my expression and walks over to me, staring at me with those intense eyes of hers. She fits her fingers between mine, squeezing my hands tightly. 

“I won’t bother to repeat it if you know it so well,” she whispers, her face inches from mine. How did she get so close? “But, still. We can’t change what happened. I have God to thank that you are still with me and not in several pieces in the ground.” She shudders and moves closer, letting go of my hands and slipping her hands around my waist. “And as for you, amore-” she presses her lips to mine, embracing me for a brief moment before pulling away- “you ought to thank God that you’re still here, too.”

“Of course I’m grateful. I’m still breathing. I still have you and the children. Who could ever want more?” I ask her, casting a quick glance out the window. It’s not the one to the north. No, today, I cannot bear the sight of my beloved city. In the distance, I can make out a man running down the hills towards my villa. “Do you see that man over there? Marietta, who is that?”

“You pose the question as if you aren’t off looking for love,” Marietta replies curtly, but the sarcasm and sweetness never leave her voice. I know she isn’t jesting with me. There’s a reason my daughter calls her a saint. “You know, however, that I wouldn’t trade you for anyone. I truly feel that way. I do not lie to you.” She peers out the window. “Is that a courier? We’re some godforsaken distance from the city. Why would he be here?”

“Upstairs, now. I don’t want him seeing you or the children. If he tries to come inside, I want him to think I’m alone.” I shoo her, never taking my eyes off of the window. She calls out to them, and they all rush upstairs. I hear the soft click as a door shuts with them all behind it. 

The man draws closer to the house, and I can hear him shouting something that sounds like my name. I step away from the window and walk outside to greet him. When he finally reaches me, he throws himself down on the ground, clutching his chest and breathing heavily. A rolled-up piece of parchment is pressed against his body. “S-Signore…,” he gasps out, clawing at the ground to pull himself up, “I a-am to read this to you.”

“Continue,” I say, offering him my hand to pull him up. He grips it roughly with his dusty, gloved hand, and he staggers trying to stand up. He isn’t on his feet for more than a moment before he opens the parchment and begins to read from it.

“By the order of our Lords Medici, I am to inform you that-”

“Oh, will you give me that!” I snap, yanking the parchment out of his hands to avoid him reading another word in that shrill voice of his. I unroll it fully and begin to read. A price in florins. A name hastily scribbled out and penalties listed. An arrest warrant. “This is for me?”

“Sì, Signor Machiavelli. They want you behind bars for your part in the conspiracy. It’s a heinous crime to conspire against our Lords, you know,” he responds, shrugging innocently. “Tell your family. I’ll be out here waiting for your response.”

Conspiracy? He has the wrong man, I’m sure of it. But, if that is the case, then why does this letter bear my name? “What conspiracy? What the hell are you talking about? And how do you know about my family? Who are you?” I lunge at the odd little man, furiously wanting answers, but he just backs away with a sly grin upon his face. He taps a dagger hanging off of his belt, and I head inside without another word, slamming the door behind me.

“Marietta?” I call her loudly. There’s no use in hiding now when the courier has already revealed that he knows there are other people with me. “You can all come out. The man outside must have seen you run upstairs, because he mentioned you all.”

“I thought we were supposed to be staying up here,” she answers, walking downstairs with Primerana, Baccina, and Bernardo. “And how did he see us all? He was still quite a distance away before we went into the bedroom. I doubt his eyes are that keen.” Baccina wobbles slightly on the step, nervously clutching the railing and looking up at Marietta for approval. Marietta gives her a pat on the head and places a reassuring hand on her back, helping to guide her down the stairs.

“They aren’t. He has other pairs of eyes around here,” I realise, peering far out the window to look for other soldiers, but no one is in sight. “He didn’t come here alone.”

“But why did he -er, they- come here, then? You still haven’t told me,” Marietta asks, reaching the bottom of the stairs. Primerana sits down on the step, pulling Baccina close to her. Bernardo stands in front of them, his hands balled into fists. Primerana swats him with her sleeve, and he lowers them.

“I can’t put this any other way. He arrived here to bring news and an arrest warrant. He says there’s something about a conspiracy involved, and my name was brought up,” I tell her. At first, she doesn’t respond. There is no sound in the house for a brief moment. Bernardo stands still, in shock, or just very, very confused. Then, I hear Primerana sob, furiously wiping her eyes with her sleeve to cover it up. Baccina notices and starts wailing. Anything her sister does, she does, my wife once mentioned to me. And as for Marietta? She looks up at me, tears welling in her eyes. “No crying,” I tell her firmly. I do not tell her this because it annoys me, but rather, because I fear I’d join in soon enough. Tears are always unbecoming for a person in my position.

“But you won’t go, right? You’ll tell him that your dear wife needs you and that she cannot live without you? And your children, too?” Marietta mumbles, swallowing her tears noisily. I shake my head at her, but before I can say a word, Primerana, Baccina, and Bernardo rush over to me, clinging onto me and sobbing frantically. I embrace them, squeezing them tightly to console them, but they refuse to calm down, babbling incoherently. It breaks my heart, even though I could never show it. “God, you can’t do this.”

“Marietta, as much as I’d love to stay here and cater to your needs-” I begin, in a way that is much more curt than I expected it to be.

“Che cazzo pensi? This isn’t about me. You know very well that there’s a chance you won’t come back alive! They’ll have your head if you can’t plead your innocence,” Marietta snaps, wringing her hands together. She looks down, embarrassed at her outburst. “Mi dispiace. I’m so scared. I’m so unspeakably scared.” 

“Ah, I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to say it like that,” I add. Primerana, Baccina, and Bernardo let go of me, and Marietta wraps her arms around me briefly before planting a passionate kiss on my lips. They taste of something bitter, I notice, and I know she’s silently weeping. “Say a prayer to God for me, if it is what you wish. If it is your way of ensuring my well-being.”

I bid them farewell, but it is something unceremonious, something quick enough that I do not meet their eyes when I do it. I cannot bear the thought of leaving or staying. What is this place they call home? I think to myself. If only I could return to my beloved city and knock on the door to my old house, to find it give beneath my touch and swing open, still untouched and unperished in the condition it was before I left for the countryside. Oh, but don’t you know? You can’t go home again, a singsong voice reminds me. I ignore the voice and finally open the door to step outside, sealing my own death warrant. The courier is leaning up against my house, his ear clearly pressed against the wall, smirking at me.

But, in spite of all this, I am going home. Home. Back to my city, the love of my life. I will welcome her with open arms, even if it means becoming just another martyr. For the first time in four months, I will make a journey through bitter cold and snow to see her again. The courier pushes himself away from the house and beckons me to follow him. Instead of taking off down the path that leads directly to the north, he starts walking to the right, around the back of my house. Hesitantly, I follow him, delighted at the idea of going home, but the hairs on the back of my neck have stood up proudly. Something is amiss.

“Messere, Firenze is that way?” I point towards the snowy dome that is still visible from here, although its bright orange has been covered with a layer of dusty snow. I realise it too late. Oh, God, it’s a trap.

“We’re not going that way,” he replies sinisterly, grabbing ahold of my arm and forcing me into one of the alleys on my property. I struggle against him, but he places such a threatening hold on my arm that I know he will break it if I don’t comply. I desist and allow myself to be dragged, looking over my shoulder to see who is coming. But it doesn’t matter, because, in the end, I am going home.

Two large, armed guards enter my field of vision, confirming my suspicions. I do not see any weapons in their hands but a rod of steel. What are they doing with that thing? What is this? The courier shoves me into the other guard’s hands, who grabs ahold of me, but I dare not resist this time. I know what is coming; it is better just to face it. Suddenly, the steel collides with the back of my head, a blunt, forceful blow that causes me to fall to the ground. A sharp pain radiates from my head down my spine, and I feel something warm slide down the back of my neck. My God, I'm bleeding. I'm a martyr. I'm actually bleeding. 

But it is all in vain. My efforts to resuscitate myself fail, and my vision clouds over, leading me into the death of darkness, my bittersweet reminder of what's to come. 

You can't go home again.


End file.
